


We'll Be Counting Scars

by sapphose



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bittersweet, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphose/pseuds/sapphose
Summary: Julian sees Garak shirtless for the first time. The reaction is not exactly what Garak was hoping for.Content warning for description and discussion of self-harm.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 16
Kudos: 137





	We'll Be Counting Scars

Julian can’t breathe, and quite frankly, he doesn’t mind. He is too busy, lips pressed against Garak’s lips, tongue searching Garak’s mouth, hands hunting for a way beneath the shirt other than ripping it off. Julian is happy to let his lungs burn because the need for air is somehow less pressing than the desire inflaming every other part of his body.

Finally, he has to pull back, panting, and demand, “How the hell do you get this thing off?”

Garak chuckles, the smug bastard. He probably chooses impossible clothing on purpose, just to maintain a sufficient air of mystery.

Julian watches with impatient anticipation. Garak, probably enjoying an attentive audience, pulls off his shirt with aching slowness.

When Julian inhales sharply, the smugness starts to slip.

“I hope that gasp is one of admiration,” Garak admonishes.

Julian frowns. He wants to shoot Garak a look, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the network of ridged white lines crossing Garak’s torso. Some are thin and fine, others are wide and puckered, but all are scars.

“Garak,” Julian says, because he wants to say something but doesn’t know what.

“Hmm, not quite the tone I’d imagined, but the evening is young.” Garak’s own tone is clear: _We are not discussing this_.

Too bad. Julian Bashir interacts with the world by talking about it.

“I’m allowed to be surprised,” he defends himself, and watches Garak tense.

Moments ago, there was no distance between them, and now the inches of space feel planet-sized.

“I’m a tailor, dear. Accidents can happen while sewing.”

Julian scoffs and taps a patch of skin where the scales are chipped and discolored.

“That was clearly a phaser burn.”

“Don’t poke,” Garak snaps, and jerks his shoulder away.

The distance stretches into galaxies, and Julian winces.

“Does it hurt?” he asks softly.

“No.”

But he knows that Garak wouldn’t admit if it did.

Cardassians have dermal regenerators and advanced cosmetic surgery. Why does Garak have so many scars? Did he want them, as some kind of badge of victory? Or were they left as a reminder, some kind of punishment?

“I’m sorry,” Julian murmurs.

Garak’s mouth twitches with something like amusement.

“You’re sorry it doesn’t hurt?”

“No. I’m sorry that people have hurt you.”

There is a pregnant pause. Julian wants to reach out, to return to the close, desperate heat they had before, but he knots his hands together and keeps himself still. Touch feels wrong, right now.

“If it makes you feel better, they aren’t all from other people,” Garak comments dryly.

Julian’s stomach lurches.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

Julian’s arms prickle with the memory of slashes reaching from wrist to inner elbow. He had been fifteen years old and panicking, determined to carve his parents’ plans from his skin, to see if anything of the real Jules remained. There is no scar, and he only did it once, but Julian remembers with precision the path of the blade.

Did Garak do the same? The pattern on his arms doesn’t stand out, but there’s so much Julian doesn’t know about Cardassian skin.

“You’ve purposefully injured yourself.”

“Only until I figured out how to remotely activate the implant.”

Julian wants to feel grateful for Garak’s honesty, to hold him and say something comforting, to be the ideal model of response.

But all he can do is listen for the unsaid. Years of conversations with Garak have taught him never to trust the surface meaning.

“What about after you stopped activating it?”

Garak’s face closes like a shut door, and Julian feels a peculiar combination of regret with the knowledge he’d still ask again. He knows that he’s pushy and too curious and doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone. But he can’t in good conscience not ask if there’s a chance Garak is still hurting himself. If there’s a chance Julian can help, and heal. That’s the whole reason he became a doctor in the first place.

“You’re the doctor. Do any of these look recent to you?” Garak irritably gestures to the constellations of scattered scars.

As a matter of fact, they don’t. But Garak is an inveterate liar, especially when his past or his health are involved. This is a potent mix of both.

“Turn around.”

“Why?”

“At your suggestion, I am looking for fresh injuries.”

“I enjoy metaphors as much as the next Cardassian, but wouldn’t you say stabbing myself in the back is a trifle too obvious, Doctor?”

The belittling tone stings, but the bitterness of that _Doctor_ feels like a slap.

“I thought you agreed to call me Julian.”

“That was before you started examining me.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you ever answered a question directly!”

But that's no different than usual. Julian knew what he was signing up for; he grabbed Garak and kissed him with full awareness that there were hundreds of things he would never know about the man in his arms. When Garak kissed him back, Julian wasn’t naive enough to believe that the implied trust would automatically result in honesty.

It still hurts. To care about someone and not be allowed to know the extent of their pain, or to help.

Maybe Julian should just leave now. This was a mistake; Kira and Miles would certainly think so. Jadzia might not, but she dated a man with a transparent skull, so her taste was hardly reliable.

Leaving will mean no more replimat lunches, no more arguments about Cardassian literature and Federation morals, no more subtext or codes or over-thinking innocuous statements in case it’s actually a secret spy message about a clandestine meeting.

Julian doesn’t want to lose any of that.

The fact that Garak had let Julian into his quarters at all is staggering. That he had been willing to remove his clothes, to let Julian see, even if he doesn’t want to talk about it… This is Garak being vulnerable.

It feels like a gift, one Julian wants to treasure.

He looks down at his hands, trying to find the words.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to start a fight, Garak. I’m just… worried about you.”

Garak’s face remains stony, impassive. Words come almost too easily to Julian when he is solving a medical problem or devising an experiment. People, and difficult emotions, leave him fumbling.

“I can’t sit here and kiss you while I’m wondering if you’re in pain,” he tries to explain.

The silence aches. What if Garak doesn’t say anything else at all? What if he just waits and watches until Julian leaves?

Garak’s sigh doesn’t provide conclusive evidence either way, but his posture seems to minutely soften. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking on Julian’s part.

Finally, Garak speaks.

“When I’m with you, I’m not,” he says quietly, with more breath than voice, and it tastes like truth.

Julian feels like laughing and crying at the same time, but he doesn’t do either. Instead he reaches out, and takes Garak’s hand in his own.

Garak interlaces their fingers together and leans his face forward, resting his forehead against Julian’s. Julian can feel the ridges, the indentation in the center, and wonders what the gesture means for Cardassians. At the moment it feels even more intimate than their kisses.

“Do you...” He swallows hard. “Do you want to, you know, keep going?”

He feels the vibrations of Garak’s laughter, even though he doesn’t hear the sound. The tender kiss that follows is all the answer he needs.

“If we keep undressing, should I be prepared for more surprises?” he asks, half-teasing and half-sincere. Garak tilts his head back, and there is a gleam in his eyes.

“That depends. How much do you know about Cardassian anatomy?”

“I’m hoping to get more familiar.”

Julian leans in, ready to continue, but is stopped by the light press of Garak’s hand against his chest.

“There may be more scars,” Garak warns.

Julian nods.

“I’ll be gentle.”

This time the laughter is audible.

“Don’t laugh!” he says, but his own words ripple with a giggling undercurrent. He knows that Cardassians are generally stronger than humans. Of course, Garak isn’t the only one who has secrets.

“I apologize, Julian.” Garak’s tone is mock-solemn, his eyes still bright with laughter. Julian can hear the real apology in the familiar use of his first name.

“I forgive you, Elim,” he murmurs.

This time, they are slower, more gentle with each other, the gradually spreading warmth of sunrise instead of a bonfire. Hands and mouths explore the unfamiliar landscape, finding a way forward.

This conversation isn’t over, Julian knows. This tension will come up again, and it will be difficult to navigate each time. But for tonight, it is enough to hold one another close and live, at least for a few moments, in a world without pain.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was hard because I really like to put a proverbial bow on the ending, and there wasn't one here. It'll be hard for them- they're going to continue discovering physical and emotional scars, and it's hard to watch someone you love be in pain when you want to be able to fix the problem for them. The only thing any of us can do is be gentle, with ourselves and with each other.


End file.
